


Love, Fear, and Habit

by chanting_lotus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Silver Tongue in Bed, Dirty Talk, Dominant Crowley, First Meetings, First Time, He Doesn't Even Mean To, Knew Each Other in Heaven, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Profane Dirty Talk, They Wanted Each Other in Heaven, Top Crowley (Good Omens), You can't change my mind, submissive Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24744049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanting_lotus/pseuds/chanting_lotus
Summary: Habit would see him report to his superiors, would see him worry over his deeds and miracles and personhood.Habit would have him wait to see Crowley. Would let the demon reach out to him, always reaching out.Aziraphale is starting to believe that habit is a shackle. That even though it scares him, perhaps it could be good to break habit once in a while. He phones up Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 175





	Love, Fear, and Habit

_Love, fear and habit. Three things that will grow in you and hold you fast, no matter the chemical makeup of your soul. They will be stubborn tumors in the dank dark insides. No matter how your beleaguered blood tries to expel them._

\--Amber Sparks, _May We Shed These Human Bodies_ , “The Only Story in the World”

**LOVE**

Before. That is all Aziraphale knows that this will be. That this is the Before. He does not know what will come After, what will be the great divide between the two. He does not know that once After happens, Before will never be again.

In the Before, there was only love. Not the duty kind, with the straight-back, tense smiles and careful distance. It is the kind of love that the humans espouse in fantasy-filled, scripture-based writings in the After. Where the clouds seemed to hold all the angels, who kept their wings out and gleaming. The angels would be in groups, grooming each other, braiding hair and holding hands.

Aziraphale keeps with his flock, a group of Principalities. Three of them, with him, have been chosen for a special task by their Mother. It will not come until After, and while Aziraphale is excited for it, he is more than content to stay here having his curls played with by one of his flock.

They are more like light now, even with his ability to have hair and wings. Aziraphale cannot determine where his light ends, and another Principality’s light begins. In the warm glow of encompassing love, it does not matter. They bleed together as they are one flock, one child of love under their Mother.

Other flocks flit in and out of the Principalities’ nest, warming their beings in the rays of sunlight. It is before the sun, but those like Aziraphale generate their own light. Aziraphale greets archangels and virtues, cherubim alike. They are all so similar and so unique. He marvels at their beings, each crafted with love by their Mother.

They bring gifts when they come, things that have been pulled out of the After. They are lovely ornaments—like flowers and jewels, these sparkling, sweet-smelling gifts convincing him that life in the After will not be so bad.

Of these glittering objects, some of the angels decorate themselves with them. They will painstakingly place them on their beings, enchanted with how the gold or opal shines. How it radiates and catches in light.

Some of the other beings speak to him. Their voices echo in his head, affection in every syllable. This is before words, but the gist is usually the same:

“Hello, Principality.”

“Hello, Archangel/Cherub/Other.”

“Your warmth delights me.”

“Your presence delights me.”

“Your presence delights me.”

Sometimes others will join in, until like a choir, each chants about the wonder of each other. It rings in Aziraphale’s head like a song he hopes to never forget. It is like a windchime on your family porch, constant and reassuring in that you have never been without it. In the Before, there were no windchimes. But this is still an apt comparison.

Time is fluid in the Before. It is how certain ones of the Holy Host scoop through the After in search of baubles. They are so clever, and Aziraphale hopes to be seen as clever by half. There is no shame or fear here for what he is or is not, but it does not mean that there is no such thing as hope. He hopes to see certain angels again, and he hopes to lay in the weight of his flock’s warmth forever.

Time is fluid. So Aziraphale has no measure to say when things began to change. When the conversations changed. In the After, he will be able to look back and pinpoint that this is when the divide began.

There was once, as he radiated within his flock that a voice called from his mind.

“Hello, Principality.”

“Hello, Seraph.” Some of his flock could not see, but it was not for them. Their Mother gave them beautiful senses that were useful to their purpose. Aziraphale, however, was one that was given eyes aplenty. The Seraph was The Morningstar, a being wreathed in flame.

The flame was not for basking, but for protection. Most of the seraphim did not mingle within other flocks, instead guarding their Mother and singing for Her. Aziraphale had only seen them in the distance, for up close, they were too bright to gaze upon. It was a powerful reminder of those that stayed close to their Mother.

“Your form delights me.” Aziraphale speaks out of turn. For surely, this is the first time he has encountered The Morningstar up close. The Seraph has no purpose for their rays of light. He generates a heat strong enough to burn.

“Your form delights me.” The Morningstar says. It was not so fundamentally different than the usual repertoire but the change in word unmoors Aziraphale. His form is not so different from any other Principality, a being of light, save for the eyes. He has been told they are pure blue, much like the sea that their Mother has thought up but yet to create.

It is a pleasure to be seen as delightful for his being. The Morningstar continues. “But do you ever wonder why our Mother gave you eyes and not Haniel? Or why she can hear and you cannot?”

“I can hear you.”

“But you cannot hear the birdsong.”

“Birdsong?”

“It is something our Mother will make. Humans will find it very sweet.”

Aziraphale hadn’t been let into all of their Mother’s plans. He decides that the humans are not the important part to this story. “Our Mother would have given me sound if She thought I would need it.”

And the Morningstar moves on. A Cherub touches his wings, grooms him and sings into his head. Their love washes through him and he quickly forgets why his conversation might have been important.

He is not told that the Morningstar asks this of most of the angels, traveling through the flocks. He does not know that it is the divide that creates the After or that some angels will also take what The Morningstar says to heart.

Some of his flock wear gifts from virtues or archangels, but Aziraphale has never been given something. It does not strike envy in him, for that in word and deed is not something that occurs in the Before.

Instead, he is happy at how his flock love their baubles, wearing and thanking the gifters.

Aziraphale learns that some angels are closer than others, when his flock begins to splinter. It is another indication that the After is coming. The Principalities blur their form with another, or two or three, melting their consciousnesses into a singular entity. The three others tasked like him stay within the flock, with him.

The new entities, Aziraphale is uncertain on what to call them, radiate a love on a new frequency. It is the same warm agape that each being in Heaven cast from themselves, but also philautia so deep it is staggering. It keys him into how much care those that gave up their minds to make something new—something other—had for their counterparts.

A Hashmal approaches their flock. Perhaps this entity is new, for Aziraphale does not recall them. It is uncommon for them to come down from the cosmos, and they have tiny, frail bodies made of bone and flesh. Some of the others in his flock say that is what humans will look like, but Mother will not allow them to keep the wings. Seeing the face of one up close, Aziraphale can understand why their Mother might wish to create humans like the hashmallim. They are breathtakingly beautiful, or at least this one is. Aziraphale thanks his Mother for the gift of eyes. If only for this moment.

They wear their hair long and red, eyes golden. It is the same gold that many archangels place upon their beings in an attempt to shine even brighter. It was built into this one from the beginning.

“Hello, Hashmal.” For some reason, Aziraphale is nervous. It is not a bad feeling. There is no negativity attached to it. But for once he understands the desire to break from the flock. He wants to be closer to this hashmal. It is unlike him to speak first, as he longs to give the angels what they need in their respite here. Whether it be praise or silence, his love would encompass and warm them all the same.

“Hello, Aziraphale.” The voice rings like a bell, soft and clear and smooth. It is like a stone at the bottom of a slow river, eroded by time rather than speed.

“You know my name?”

“I know most of the angels’ names.” The Hashmal says, their eyes sliding across his being. “I watch a lot of you, from up there.” They have arms to gesture above. The cosmos, at this point, is not truly above them but Aziraphale caught the gist.

“Oh.” He feels as if he should ask for the Hashmal’s name.

“I have something for you.” And the beautiful being reaches out a hand. Aziraphale has none of his own, but in the fluid space, with their fluid pseudo-bodies, he reaches out as well. A small circlet falls into his being. It is as gold as the Hashmal’s eyes. “You will wear it on your fingers, when you have some.”

“I will wear it.” Aziraphale promises. The hashmallim are third closest to their Mother’s throne, so far up into the stars. The cherubim, who protect, and the seraphim, who praise, are closer. But not by much. If this Hashmal has reason to believe he will one day have fingers, then Aziraphale trusts them. “It is a lovely gift from the After.”

“It is not from the After. It is from my stars.”

Aziraphale does not know how to respond for a moment. His being glows brighter, adoring the closeness of the gift. It is infinitely more precious to him. “Then it is even more wonderous.”

“Thank you, Aziraphale.” And the Hashmal leaves before Aziraphale can thank him back, before he can praise the beauty of the being, or even ask for their name.

He does not know that this is the last gift that will be given before the After. That it will be the only time he will meet the Hashmal he would have chosen to dissolve with into a singular entity within Heaven. He thinks that he will never be able love as much as he does now, but he will be proven wrong in 1941. The numbers, like all numbers, belong to the After.

It is still the Before. And in the Before, time and space and love are limitless.

**FEAR**

Aziraphale is given a body, and the first thing he feels is an awful lurch in the gut area. It is accompanied by a profuse sweat across his body and a dizziness in his head. He is told by a supervisor, in clipped tones and from six feet away, that it is his own disposition that caused the malfunction, not the corporation itself.

Oh, he says. Silly me.

The supervisor, an archangel or maybe a cherub, it is hard to tell in the human suits, does not offer comfort. That was something that would occur in the Before. Now, they do not even offer to groom his wings.

Aziraphale misses the touch of another, the warmth that was given in response to his own. He doesn’t say so, for he is afraid of the response he would get back. Surely if others missed it as well, then they wouldn’t have stopped. It wouldn’t be one of the many things left in the Before.

His special task by his Mother—and he is instructed to call Her “The Almighty” now, as it strikes more fear into the enemy—would be down on Earth. The humans do look oddly like the hashmallim. Albeit a little less divine and perfect.

He is afraid to mess up. He is afraid to speak to them, or the others in his flock. The Principalities were the most connected of flocks, they rarely moved from their nest, and now they won’t even look at each other. Aziraphale watches a nest in a tree, and how the birds take flight and leave each other when they are old enough.

He is afraid that that was what happened to his flock. They were too old to stay in the nest, now. They were to never return.

When he does what he was built to, what was strung into his light, when he protects the humans, he must face The Almighty. He wonders after, when he became afraid of his Mother.

It is during this wonder, that the snake slithers up to him. It is not a usual snake, not made naturally by his Mother. Instead, it is a demon—a creature made and then unmade by the Creator. As the skins shift from snake to demon, Aziraphale gets the distinct feeling he has met this one before. It is impossible, as this is the first demon he has ever happened on before. He refuses to think of who this demon was. The impression leaves him rattled.

As does the conversation afterwards.

It is something that will not leave him, not in the years or centuries or millennia to come. This feeling. There are days that he feels as if he can conquer it, and one of the other angels come down to remind him that he cannot.

The demon and he circle each other. Crawly, then Crowley. Aziraphale longs to know what his name was up in Heaven. He’d never ask position, for he is frightfully aware of what it was.

There are only two instances that Aziraphale can recall having a panic attack. His superior, Gabriel, reminds him that his nervous nature is what makes him feel so fragile, and that the panics were just highlights to his weak nature.

Gabriel never spoke to him like this in the Before. Sometimes, he can see guilt in the Archangel’s eyes before it slides off and away.

The first panic attack occurs when Crowley suggests the Arrangement. He plays it off as anger, as indignation, righteous and pure. He forces his body to stomp through the marsh in its heavy armor, safe in camp before crying.

Aziraphale is exhausted. His workload is heavy and the tension that runs through him exacerbates the problem. The Arrangement sounds perfect, but he is scared. This would not be a simple reprimand should his superiors find out.

He feels shoved from his flock and is desperate to feel Heaven’s light, despite how dim it seems sometimes. Aziraphale is not ready to fly.

It stops him from saying yes for half a century. What pushes him is losing his body, breaking it down so badly that Gabriel had tutted—actually tutted!—at him. Something must give.

The second one, which he thought would only occur at Armageddon itself, happens much sooner. Crowley asks for Holy Water, one of the few things in the universe that could kill the demon, and he loses it.

He’s glad he doesn’t see Crowley for a long time afterwards. He’s not sorry for refusing him, he’s not sorry that he was upset.

But he forgives Crowley easily. The argument is lost in the rubble of the chapel, lost to the brightest warmth Aziraphale had felt in the After.

It does not erase his fear, and he tells Crowley in less words than he would like. Aziraphale cannot say that he loves him, cannot say all that he wants. He settles to ask Crowley to slow down some.

It breaks both their hearts.

**HABIT**

Aziraphale learned a way of life to make himself less nervous. It was to give him love and to keep his body safe from his worried tendencies. He opens his bookshop when he chooses, controlling the hours and who can buy what.

He allows loss of control only in the way of food, as food would never scold or scorn him.

It is After the After. The New Before. Aziraphale hasn’t decided what to call it yet. But his flock has well and truly cut him from them like cancer, and he has a new nest mate. Crowley.

Habit has him see his nest mate every few months. At least in the After—not After the After. Habit would see him report to his superiors, would see him worry over his deeds and miracles and personhood.

Habit would have him wait to see Crowley. Would let the demon reach out to him, always reaching out.

Aziraphale is starting to believe that habit is a shackle. That even though it scares him, perhaps it could be good to break habit once in a while. He phones up Crowley.

“’Lo,” Crowley says. Aziraphale has never enjoyed the way the phone made his voice tinny.

“Hello, dear boy.” Aziraphale feels as if he has made a poor decision. But that should not indicate his actual decision-making—he feels this way most of the time. “I was wondering if you’d fancy going to see a play tonight. I’ve got two tickets and hadn’t quite decided on whether to go or not.”

He didn’t have tickets, or he didn’t have them a moment before. Sitting on his messy desk, poking out from Jane Austen was a set of tickets. It is for A Doll’s House. Aziraphale crinkles his nose; it is not one of his favored plays.

There is a pause on the line. “Sure. I’m free. Why not?” Crowley aims for an air of casual and fails miserably. Aziraphale smiles at the phone in his hand.

“I’ll meet you at the theater. At say, oh, six o’clock?”

“I could pick you up.” Crowley says. “If you’d like.”

“That sounds like a lovely idea.” Aziraphale tries to effuse as much love as he could into his voice. There is a choking sound on the other side, and he feels like he accomplished what he wished.

Crowley picks him up, wearing color under his black jacket. It is a deep maroon, fetching with his hair. Aziraphale thinks on complimenting him. It feels like too much.

There was a time when it would be easy. When what he would say would mean so much more and would be so much easier. This was before fear, before rejection, this was in the Before.

The play is performed well. Aziraphale wants to reach out and take Crowley’s hand, like he did on the bus. It was warmer than he expected, the feeling of flesh against his own. His ring pressed into Crowley’s pinky and Aziraphale thought he might discorporate twice in one day.

It was, in his humble opinion, the best thing he had done.

But without that sense of urgency, provoking him and telling him that this was the final curtain, he couldn’t get himself to reach across the armrest. Crowley could probably sense his want and props his arm on the barrier.

Aziraphale manages to circle Crowley’s wrist within his fingers when the lights came back on. He uses his grip to pull him up. “Would you care for a night cap?” He asks. Aziraphale feels daring. He feels like he’s driving Crowley’s car, too fast for him. Too exhilarating to slow down.

“Sure, angel. Whatever you want.”

He wants a lot of things. Things he couldn’t say. Or that he couldn’t before the New Before.

They pop open an old Merlot. It’s new to them, old to the world. It is a rare occurrence for the occult and celestial.

There is discussion on Adam, there is discussion on Agnes and dolphins and whether the small inn keep in the 1743 was actually gay and hitting on Aziraphale, or if Crowley just saw sin in everyone.

“I can’t help but see sin in everyone.” Crowley says, head lolling a little bit. “Besides, we both know that being gay isn’t a sin.”

“Course its not.” Aziraphale agrees. “Plenty of angels are gay. Or some variation. It’s the lust that’s the sin.”

“How can an angel be gay?”

“You could base off corporations—it’s easiest. Or maybe based on positions? But when they dissolve together…” He trails off, thinking of it. Thinking of the powerful philautia in the merged entity. Wondering what it would be to have that.

“I remember that.” Crowley says. “I don’t remember much, but I do remember that.”

“Do you…did you ever want to do that? With someone?” Was his gift in the Before an attempt at that?

“Mmmm. Can’t remember. Did you?”

It’s a perfect opening. A way to be brave. Aziraphale’s body responds the way it usually does when he’s given an option that could make him anxious. He sweats and quivers inside his bones. But he doesn’t want to back down.

“I have.” He says, wiping his hands off his pants.

“Why’d you not?” Crowley asks.

“They left.” Aziraphale lurches to his feet. “They left and I never got the chance to ask.”

Crowley watches as Aziraphale stumbles around the coffee table, cranes his neck to keep his eyes on his face. “That’s a shame.” It doesn’t sound like it is, but Aziraphale knows Crowley is the jealous type.

“I’d love the chance. I’d still love the chance.” He repeats like a record. Like a promise.

There’s a twist to Crowley’s lip and Aziraphale can tell that he did not get it. He gets himself to his knees, in between the long legs of the demon, and thanks the wine for slowing the reaction time. Crowley just looks dazed down at him.

Aziraphale presses his hand to Crowley’s chest. “You could do me the honor. I didn’t get a chance, before you left me. But we could now—I’d dissolve so sweetly into you, I promise. We’d be wonderous, holy and profane if you’d like, if you’d like.” He hiccups, focusing on his body. The atoms start to shift, filtering under Crowley’s shirt.

The demon makes no move to stop him for a moment, actively allows it to happen.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley clenches a hand around his wrist. “Wait.”

“Do you not…not want?” His voice curls down at the end. In the Before, this feeling wouldn’t be here. In the After, he wouldn’t have the guts to ask.

Perhaps both were better than this.

“I want you, of course I do, angel.” Crowley grits his teeth, sobering up. Aziraphale forces himself to do the same, shame shooting through him as he realizes the situation. “But I don’t want to become one consciousness. I quite like have arguments with you. And I can’t do that if you and I are…well just one.”

Aziraphale made a distressed noise. “I just. I’ve wanted for so long. I feel like I should pull you as close as I can, keep you under my skin.”

“We’d both not fit.” Crowley says. “The humans deal with this, too.”

“I doubt in this magnitude.”

“You’d be surprised at how much feeling they can fit in such a short time.” Crowley says, still holding to Aziraphale’s wrist. Not letting him up. “I guess they’ve got to. We could…try the human way.”

“The human way?” Aziraphale blames the sheer number of new in the room for his slow understanding.

Crowley brings Aziraphale’s palm up to his mouth, kissing it dry and then licking a stripe across it. It opens up his nerves, from palm up to wrist up to shoulder and finally eliciting a full body shiver starting at the base of his head. “Oh.” Aziraphale has never tried the human way before. Not because he is a prude, or because it didn’t look like right fun, but because he thought Crowley would prefer a bonding more supernatural.

It’s all he can think on, now.

His position becomes less embarrassing and more useful as Aziraphale’s brain clacks away on all that they could do. The human ways they could be inside each other. Crowley must catch on, for he pushes his face into Aziraphale’s captured hand. “If you want to, angel. There’s no pressure.”

“I want to.” He wants to know these things on Crowley.

“You’ll need to get up, so we can get to a bed.” Crowley says. “You’ve got a bed, don’t you? It’s typically where these things are done.” He’s nervous. He only rattles around words when he’s nervous.

Aziraphale, for the first time since the Before, feels perfectly calm. He knows exactly how he wants this to go. And he does have a bed, contrary to the demon’s belief, but he doesn’t want that.

“We could stay right here.” Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s ankle. There’s a bit of exposed skin and it’s much cooler than the hand gripping his wrist. He strokes at the thin flesh that covers Crowley’s ankle.

The demon makes a sound in the back of his throat, an encouraging one that emboldens Aziraphale enough to break free from Crowley’s hand. He slides the glasses off of Crowley’s face. He doesn’t know why he’d ever thought that his eyes weren’t gold anymore. He remembers, in the Beginning of the After, thinking they looked jaundiced. Now, Aziraphale can see that they are like gold set to flame. Liquid.

“Would you like that?” He is no longer inebriated and remembers how important vocal consent is. “Could I do that for you?”

“Angel…” Crowley struggles on what to say.

Aziraphale is patient, though. He can recall a time when he could wait eons for an angel to bask in his light. He could wait here too. He does sneak his hand up what he can of Crowley’s pants, pressing fingers against the taut calf muscle there. “I’d love to, if you’d let me. If you want me.” Aziraphale says plainly.

“I’ll always want you.” He reaches out to Aziraphale, the first person to really and truly sink his hands into Aziraphale’s curls since the Before. It makes him tilt his head up, ready to receive whatever Crowley sees fit to give him.

It’s a kiss. How it alights his whole body, like he is nothing by fire, nothing but a burning light. Aziraphale melts into it. He is unable to do anything else, with one of Crowley’s hands guiding him by hair and the other by jaw. His other hand lands on Crowley’s thigh to keep balance. The muscle jumps under his palm.

They kiss long enough for his corporation’s knees to start to complain, as he landed on a ridge of the throw rug. The ache that pulses up his legs somehow adds to the experience. Reminds him where he is, in position to where Crowley is. Aziraphale groans into Crowley’s mouth and the demon tightens his grip briefly. The flash of pleasure pain has his body responding in quite a human way, suddenly aching enough that his mind splits focus.

Crowley moves him back some, a thin string of spit connecting them. It’s obscene. Aziraphale loves it. He could make that a new habit, being kissed by Crowley.

They regard each other for a moment. Aziraphale slides his hand up further, inching closer to the bulge that dominates Crowley’s jeans. “Let me stay here. Let me do this for you.” For me, he doesn’t add.

He hesitates on the zipper, wanting to hear a verbal yes from Crowley. What he gets is a raspy, “No teeth.” It is said in the same demanding way he’ll say no magic or don’t say thank you. All of the heat in Aziraphale sucks to the center of his being, leaving his skin feeling somehow inflamed and cool. The sensation is a good one, albeit one hard to describe.

Crowley stands almost straight, when Aziraphale manages to wrestle him out of his jeans. He is a soft pink, for some reason cut. It is different than his own and Aziraphale loves it. It is another piece of Crowley to love with his whole being.

The demon above him hisses the first time that Aziraphale tongues at the head. He puts Crowley on his mouth, feels the clean salt and small give of the hard flesh. The sound that comes from Crowley’s mouth has him deciding that he would have this forever if he could.

He bobs his head once, and then sits waiting. He waits for Crowley to tell him if it was good, if he liked it. Crowley places a hand at his nape, a finger overlaying his curls. “It’s perfect, keep going.”

The hand guides him down again. He’s not forceful about it, doesn’t grip or pull. It’s a steady reminder that Crowley has him. Aziraphale leaks some at the thought.

The next few moments are quiet besides bitten off sounds from Crowley and the wet sound of flesh dragging over tongue. It’s good. It’s so good that Aziraphale couldn’t think to ask for more until Crowley opens his mouth.

“You look divine on your knees. Of course, you do.” His fingers tighten. “You’ve got practice. I could keep you here for centuries and you could take it—stayed on your knees that long before.”

Aziraphale’s stomach clenches when he realizes Crowley is harkening this to worship. He shoves further onto the floor, trying to put pressure on his aching groin without taking his hands off of Crowley. He tenses above Aziraphale, perhaps not meaning to say what he said, until a high whine comes out of Aziraphale. He is dripping, much wetter than he expected from this form.

“You like that?” Crowley asks. “You want to hear what I think?” Aziraphale slows to make sure his nod is not mistaken.

“I think your mouth is put to better use here than singing any hymn.” He touches the stretch skin of Aziraphale’s lip, almost forcing a finger in with his cock. Aziraphale would let him, too, let him shove all that he would into the angel. “This, you on your knees, is a better worship than anything that Heaven has to offer.”

The profanity of it should upset Aziraphale. Instead, he feels a curl of embarrassment, the hot rise of shameful want. He didn’t know that these feelings could exist together. The combination is heady and has him tightening his fingers on the flesh of Crowley. It has the same effect on Crowley. His hand clenches down on his neck, catching and tugging at some of his hair.

Aziraphale pulls off for a moment, not for breath, but the desire. He pants and Crowley releases him and apologizes. “Please, more.” Aziraphale says.

“More?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale pushes his hand back to where it was. Presses it down like a demand. “Rougher? You want me rougher?”

“Please.” Aziraphale lowers his head back down, fingers biting into his neck. He can’t find a rhythm this time, Crowley makes one for him.

Crowley threads his hand through Aziraphale’s curls, uses them as leverage to move the angel. “I’ve got you,” He says. “Let me move you, let me decide what’s best for you. I’ll treat you better than even God Herself could.” Crowley is a quick learner. He’s found a button, one that Aziraphale was unaware of, and is using it. Aziraphale’s hips jerk up, wet cotton dragging.

“When you worship me, I’ll reward you. You won’t ever have to worry that your praise goes unseen. That I’m not listening, not watching.” He pushes Aziraphale’s head down, and tears start to leak from his eyes. Something in him is being broken and rebuilt. It’s a cleansing process. “When you call out to me, I’ll give you exactly what you want. I know what you want. I’m the only one—” He snarls, hand digging past the point of painful. It is a starburst inside Aziraphale.

“I’m the only one who will ever know what you want.” Crowley’s legs start shaking underneath him. “No one gets you like this. In this worship, devotion. Not the demonic horde, or the holy host. Not even God.”

He curls down around Aziraphale, puts his lips up to the angel’s ear. “Because here’s a secret, angel. She’s not watching now. She doesn’t deserve to gaze upon you, anymore. It’s just us.”

Crowley groans around the last words, and a hot splash of liquid coats the back of Aziraphale’s throat. He still has his ironclad grip around Aziraphale’s head, forcing him down. Aziraphale works his throat to swallow. His face feels so hot and his legs ache and his body needs.

When he is released, he drags his hands off of Crowley’s legs and unbuttons himself. Crowley watches, says, “Let me handle that for you.” And he makes a move to pull Aziraphale up. But that isn’t what Aziraphale wants. He wants to stay on his knees, bracketed by Crowley’s legs.

“No.” Aziraphale says. “Just watch.”

The demon resettles onto the couch, catching on quick. He looks down once at Aziraphale. The somewhat stout, thick piece of him. How his flesh slips from the head when Aziraphale pulls on it. “You want me to witness you.”

Aziraphale bites his lip so hard that he feels he may cut it open. He looks down at himself, once, before Crowley cups his jaw and forces his eyes up. Crowley’s blush has disappeared, and he looks on with a careful detachment, the fire tucked away. It makes Aziraphale feel less-than, debased, and somehow much more. His chest swells.

“Crowley,” He pants out. He can feel liquid drip off of him, drop to the floor.

Crowley’s hand tightens for a moment.

“Crowley.”

“You say my name like a prayer.” Crowley says. His voice is soft, velvet. He could say anything in that tone and would have Aziraphale agree.

Aziraphale shuts his eyes, allows himself to just feel. “Crowley.” And he puts the same emphasis on it that he does when he prays. He can’t look at Crowley when he says it.

He pushes Aziraphale’s face up. “I’m here, darling. I’m listening, tell me what you need.”

“Crowley, Crowley.” His heart feels like it may crack open. His breath is too tight, like a panic attack, but so much better. He could live in this feeling.

“That’s right, angel.” Crowley’s fingers slide over the bone of his jaw. “I am all that you need.”

The idea whites him out, unexpected and terrifying. His mind goes blank, whiter than Heaven, brighter than the Before.

He comes back in his bed, with Crowley dragging a wet washcloth over his face. When he refocuses, Crowley can tell. “Was that alright, angel?” His voice is gentle and careful, face open and nervous.

“It was perfect, my dear heart.” Aziraphale says. “So good I could make a habit of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend the short story collection by Amber Sparks, not because all of them remind me of Good Omens, but because I love the writing style. (I strive to write like that, and fail miserably) 
> 
> I did a lot of angelic lore to decide what I wanted the demons to have originally been. There's some discourse in the religious forums (yikes) about whether the Morningstar was a seraphim or archangel or if Lucifer and Satan are even the same person, so I did what I wanted. It's been a hot minute since I've read the book so I'm not sure if I am non-canon on that. 
> 
> I made Crowley a hashmallim because I wanted his form to basically be the same in Heaven and Hell. Several of the sources I looked at argued if it was the virtues or the hasmallim that regulated the cosmos, but I don't like physical descriptors of virtues soooo....
> 
> Also, I've been thinking on doing a second part from Crowley's perspective, but I'm on the fence about it. Let me know what you think!


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